


Full Dress

by equestrianstatue



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale's Metaphysical Wardrobe, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, Kilts, M/M, less philosophical exploration of conscientious objection than I would have liked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: “You look…” Crowley’s tongue circled slightly unsteadily around the sight of Aziraphale, the crisp neatness, the unnameable, oddly powerful aura that the clothes seemed to magnify. “…Good,” he said, eventually.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 395
Collections: South Downs Holiday-ish Exchange





	Full Dress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haeym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haeym/gifts).



“What’re you doing that for?” Crowley asked, slouching against the doorframe.

Aziraphale, who was wrapping a soft-looking, fawn-coloured woollen scarf around his neck, glanced up at him. “Hmm?”

Crowley nodded in his direction. “You’re an angel. You don’t get cold.”

Neither of them did, really. The external climate registered to them both, but more for the purposes of environmental information than anything else, and their core temperatures simply adjusted to the world around them. Crowley had once severely unnerved a village full of people in the Arctic Archipelago by accidentally passing through while wearing only a shirt and breeches, but that was another story.

“Oh.” Aziraphale adjusted the scarf to his liking, straightened the lapels of his coat, and smiled. “Well. It’s the done thing, isn’t it? It’s winter. Everyone else is wearing them. It seems churlish not to join in.”

“Bit of a waste of time, if you ask me,” said Crowley, managing to lever himself upright without removing his hands from his pockets, as Aziraphale walked over from the hat stand to open the bookshop’s front door.

“I didn’t,” said Aziraphale. “But thank you. After you.”

Crowley slunk out of the door, and watched Aziraphale lock it fastidiously behind him after he’d followed Crowley outside. Not that any human with malicious intent could have broken through the several hundred years’ worth of protective curses that had been surreptitiously laid on the place, and not that any agent of heaven or hell with malicious intent could have been stopped by a Chubb lock. But Crowley supposed that everybody had their rituals.

“Anyway,” said Aziraphale, straightening up, “you’re the one who’s always been so keen on joining in.” He indicated Crowley’s clothing, which was, as ever, perfectly fitted and looking extremely good. “Not that I’d be so rude as to call it a waste of time, but one of us has been far more interested in following human fashion than the other, don’t you think?”

Crowley inhaled sharply. “I don’t follow fashion, angel. I set it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” said Aziraphale, in a tone that was rather more indulgent than Crowley would have liked. “Right. Japanese or Korean?”

“Japanese,” said Crowley. “Let’s go to the ramen place that you can’t get into without standing outside for an hour.”

Micro-restaurants that refused to take reservations had been one of Crowley’s most successful ventures of the last decade, and he particularly enjoyed visiting them in winter. Aziraphale, for whom the queue somehow always dissipated within minutes, nodded approvingly.

“Besides,” Crowley said as they set off, “you’ve been following fashion, in a manner of speaking. You’re just usually somewhere between a decade and a couple of centuries behind. You may as well do it properly or not at all.”

“I find things I like and I keep them,” said Aziraphale, mildly.

“The day you finally bin that bow tie will be a blessing on us all.”

“Well, I’m not going to put it in the _bin_. If I do find something else I’d prefer to wear, I’ll just keep the bow tie with everything else.”

“Everything else?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“With my other clothes. In my wardrobe.”

“You don’t have a wardrobe.”

“Not on the physical plane, no.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. “Are you telling me you have a metaphysical wardrobe?”

“Yes?” said Aziraphale. “You don’t?”

“No, I just have an actual one. So, hang on, do you mean you’ve kept _everything_? All the clothes you’ve ever worn?”

“Of course I have. It’s only sensible.”

“Sensible how?”

“They might come back into vogue,” Aziraphale said, earnestly. “You never know. Fashion’s cyclical, after all. Or so I’ve read.”

“Where?” asked Crowley, suspiciously.

“I’ve recently subscribed to a very interesting periodical. _The Cosmopolitan_. Have you heard of it?”

“What the fuck?” said Crowley. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. Why are you reading Cosmo?”

“There was a mistaken delivery to the shop. Did you know that light blues are my colour? I took a quiz.”

“Yes, of course I did. Wait, did you not?”

“Also,” said Aziraphale, “it turns out the nineties are back in a big way.”

“Please,” said Crowley, cutting to the front of a very cold-looking queue of people and elbowing open the restaurant door, “please, please, tell me more about this.”

*

The world had existed in its rebooted, as-new form for almost six months, and in Soho, an angel and a demon had been drinking steadily for most of them. This evening, ramen long accomplished, was no exception.

“Oh!” said Crowley, pointing abruptly at Aziraphale, who was sitting on the sofa. Crowley himself was lying on his back on the bookshop’s floor, propped up on his elbows, the fingers of his non-pointing hand wrapped around the stem of a glass of Argentinian red. “Right, tell you what, sixteenth century. Field of the Cloth of Gold.”

Aziraphale squinted, visibly searching his memory. “Goodness, yes.”

“Go on, show us that. You had that doublet, gold-threaded all the way through, I remember.”

“Which did feel appropriate,” Aziraphale mused. He was still squinting, though now he looked less like he was fumbling for something in his memory, and more like he was peering into the very back of a large wardrobe, because he basically was.

Aziraphale was currently wearing a chestnut-coloured double-breasted tailcoat that Crowley hadn’t seen since the early nineteenth century. It had made its only appearance in Crowley’s life at a party at a large house somewhere in Hampshire, and the exact pleated frill of Aziraphale’s shirt front stirred a long-held memory of the cadence of laugher that had tumbled out of him that night. Aziraphale had been tipsy, almost carefree, and quite obviously pleased to have run into Crowley, in a way that had made Crowley’s stomach twist into a knot even as his heart sang.

“Ah, here we are,” Aziraphale said, frowning in concentration, and then, with a precise motion of his hand in the air, he changed clothes. Gone was the shirt and tailcoat, and in its place was the doublet and hose Crowley had been thinking of, the pale silk patterned with gold thread. There was a beautiful overgown, too, satin and lynx-fur, as well as—

“Yeah, I remember that codpiece,” said Crowley, grinning. It was tastefully designed to match the rest of the outfit, and surprisingly prominent.

“Oh, as if yours was any better.”

“Glad you were looking.”

Aziraphale tutted, but there was a dusting of pink in his cheeks.

Crowley, believe it or not, hadn’t actually set out to curate a personal tour through Aziraphale’s most erotically memorable outfits. He’d just wondered how the wardrobe worked. But then again, everything he had seen Aziraphale wear over the past six millennia had more or less turned Crowley’s engine crank— up to and including, unfortunately, the tartan bow tie, which made the aesthetic portion of Crowley’s brain shrivel up and die at the same time as it made the rest of him want to unknot it slowly with his teeth.

However, if Crowley really wanted to treat himself, and he did, there were options. “Now then, hang on,” he said, and rolled himself into a sitting position. “I would very much like to take a look at your cricket whites.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, yes, hold on a moment. I did so like those.”

“Tell me about it,” said Crowley, whose memory of a Gentlemen and Players match in 1893 had seen him through many a long night. As far as Crowley could tell, Aziraphale understood none of the rules of cricket, but having assumed it was a rare physical activity he ought to be good at, he had made a century nonetheless. The sight of Aziraphale rosy-cheeked and glowing with uncharacteristic exertion had left Crowley unable to escape the idea of thoroughly grass-staining his flannels somewhere behind the pavilion. This had, at the time, remained strictly a fantasy, although a pervasive one. But perhaps Aziraphale could be tempted into something vaguely nostalgic this evening, the absence of actual grass notwithstanding.

Aziraphale took a sip from his own glass of wine, and put it down on the floor beside the sofa. Then he narrowed his eyes, licked his lips, and flicked his fingers into the empty air. His clothing shimmered and shifted, and the doublet and hose were gone. But instead of cricket whites, he was now wearing a stiff-looking cream-coloured military tunic, with shining golden buttons and threaded golden epaulettes. The collar was high on his throat, shifting against his neck as Aziraphale looked down at himself, taking in the rest of the outfit: a muted tartan kilt, white stockings, and white ankle boots.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, sounding puzzled. He frowned, and then he flicked his fingers again, harder. There was another shift in the air, and suddenly there were the cable-knit jumper and the white flannel trousers, and the mysterious outfit had slipped away.

“Wait,” said Crowley, shaking his head and blinking. “What was that, just then? Go back to that one. Never seen you wear that before.”

“But this was what you meant, wasn’t it?” said Aziraphale, his fingers at the dip of the V-neck of his jumper.

“Yes,” said Crowley, waving his hand, “but go back. What were those boots? Did they have spats? When on Earth were you sporting that look? Don’t tell me it was while I was having that nap. If you joined some kind of pseudo-military dress club while I wasn’t looking, I’m going straight back to bed again.”

“I didn’t,” said Aziraphale. “It’s not really… it’s not actually something I’ve worn.”

Crowley screwed up his eyes, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. “Why’s it in your wardrobe, then?”

“Does that matter?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. “Matters that I’ve never seen you in a kilt before, and I absolutely want to see it again. Right now.”

“Well, Crowley, we can’t always get what we want.”

“Can too,” said Crowley. He wrinkled up his nose. Something had changed in the bookshop, but he couldn’t place it. Closing one eye, he let the tip of his tongue dart out, flickering, from between his lips. There was a cold, clean, bright sort of smell, not completely unlike a recently-chlorinated swimming pool, pleasant and unpleasant all at once, and Crowley’s wine-soaked brain struggled to place it. “What’s that?”

“Oh, leave it be, would you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, sounding oddly unhappy, at the exact moment that Crowley’s senses caught up with him, and he realised that he could taste heaven in the air.

“That’s…” said Crowley, letting his tongue touch the roof of his mouth as the sensation hit the back of his throat, “that’s a very _righteous_ outfit you’ve got there, angel.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, folding his hands in his lap. “Yes. Naturally.”

“All right,” said Crowley, slightly more slowly. “Can I see it again? If I promise not to make fun of it?”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley, who had never yet met an unwanted question that he hadn’t immediately asked, said, “Why?”

Aziraphale’s mouth had become a thin, pursed line. He was sitting still, although one hand was twisting absently at the cuff of his jumper, and he didn’t answer.

Crowley said, confused and surprised, “You’re ashamed of it.” A further downturned twitch of Aziraphale’s mouth. Crowley pushed himself slightly more upright, peering up into Aziraphale’s face. “Because it’s from heaven? But _you’re_ from heaven. Anyway, since when has heaven had uniforms?”

“Well, it’s rather a long time since you’ve been there.”

“Isn’t, actually,” Crowley pointed out. “But it was all a bit Savile Row when I last visited. Didn’t see anyone dressed like that. Because— ” Crowley cut himself off on a sudden, comprehending intake of breath, his brain clicking into place. Military, he’d thought, at first. “Oh. Right. Because the war had been called off.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

“Huh,” said Crowley, slipping back down onto his elbows. “Battle dress. That’s new.”

“Heaven’s got quite a lot more… organised, you know, since the, um, the first disagreement,” said Aziraphale. “And this time round, of course, the war was foretold. Gabriel doesn’t tend to spend more time on Earth than he can help, but he must have seen something similar down here, and he’s always had an eye for human tailoring, so…”

“He has,” admitted Crowley. And then, “Will you show it to me again?”

“Why, Crowley?”

“Because I want to see it.”

Aziraphale gave him a long, careful look, and for a moment Crowley thought he would be flatly denied. But then, sighing, Aziraphale rolled his shoulders slightly, brought his hand up through the air, and changed his clothes once more. Gone were the cricket whites, and almost immediately forgotten, as the tunic, the kilt and the bright white boots manifested themselves again.

It was interesting, the uniform. Not so much in its design, although that had been done well, but in its effect. Something about the cut of the collar, perhaps, made it impossible for the person inside it not to sit up a little straighter, to appear a little taller, and Aziraphale usually sat up straight to begin with. Something about the unblemished fields of cream and white and fawn made the heavenly nature of the body that wore it seem to vibrate with an increased frequency, so that Crowley could almost taste that in the air, too.

“You look…” Crowley’s tongue circled slightly unsteadily around the sight of Aziraphale, the crisp neatness, the unnameable, oddly powerful aura that the clothes seemed to magnify. “…Good,” he said, eventually.

Aziraphale laughed, slightly, without much humour. “Yes,” he said.

“No, I mean— it suits you.”

Aziraphale plucked softly at one of the cuffs. “Hmm.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“Why do you think?” asked Aziraphale, glancing up.

“But it didn’t get used,” Crowley said. “Didn’t have to be. None of them did.”

“All the same.”

“Look,” said Crowley, nodding towards the kilt, “It’s even got tartan. I can’t believe you don’t like it.”

Aziraphale smiled, despite himself. “Yes, I somewhat resent that about it.”

Crowley picked up his wine glass from the floor, and drained the end of it. “I pretty much missed the whole show, the first time round, you know,” he said, as conversationally as possible. “I sort of got tipped off. Decided to stay out of the way. And by the time I could see where things were going, I thought I might as well just show myself out.”

Aziraphale, who was looking at his own hands in his lap, said, “I didn’t. Miss it, I mean.”

“Yeah?” said Crowley, slowly.

“Things were very different back then, of course.” Aziraphale was gently twisting the ring that sat on the smallest finger of his right hand. “There was no alternative. Well.” His eyes flickered briefly up to look at Crowley. “Clearly there was. But there was no Earth, there was no— no conception of anything outside of what angels had been created to do. It was defending the glory of the Almighty. That was what it was.”

Aziraphale flattened his hands against his knees, his palms stretched momentarily against the wool of the kilt. Then, after a moment, he reached up, and made as if to gesture into the air again.

“Wait,” said Crowley. “Don’t take it off.”

“Crowley, please,” said Aziraphale, and then he paused, and peered at Crowley where he sat on the floor. He said, vaguely uncomprehending, “You like it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley admitted.

“Why?”

Good question. It wasn’t an outfit at all in Crowley’s own style; unusually, in fact, he was fairly sure he couldn’t have pulled it off himself. No, it was stiff and starched and boxy, and the light of heaven seemed to seep inexorably through its fibres, and it made Aziraphale look more like the Guardian of the Eastern Gate than he ever had when he’d actually had the brief.

Crowley shrugged. Then he pushed himself to sit upright again, and shuffled the short distance across the floor to Aziraphale’s feet. He reached forward and, when Aziraphale didn’t stop him, took hold of the hem of the kilt between his thumb and forefinger. The material was unnaturally soft, and felt somehow as though it was a thought away from no longer existing in his hand. As though it was made of stuff that was not quite of Earth.

Aziraphale was looking down at him, still with that slightly puzzled look on his face, and a touch of wariness, too. And yet, despite all of that, the light in his eyes felt brighter, harder, than Crowley could remember it being in a very long time.

With his other hand, Crowley touched Aziraphale’s leg, resting his palm against his calf. The sheer white material of the stocking was cool under his hand, but somewhere underneath it, the divinity within Aziraphale was burning.

Crowley breathed in, and got a lungful of that harsh, heavenly air. Aziraphale very carefully rested one of his hands on Crowley’s head, settling tentatively in his hair.

“It makes you look, uh, strong,” Crowley said, slightly inadequately, to Aziraphale’s knee.

Above him, Aziraphale made a muted sound of amusement. “Well, I expect that’s what Gabriel was going for.”

“Like you could destroy me.”

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened momentarily in Crowley’s hair. “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice small. “You know I couldn’t.”

Crowley swallowed. “No. You wouldn’t. But you could.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply to this, at first, but his fingers moved slightly, slowly, against Crowley’s scalp. Then he said, “I’m actually not at all sure that I could.”

“You could certainly give it a good try.”

Aziraphale’s fingers kept up their soft, subtle motion, and then, as if Aziraphale were trying to do it without actually noticing it happening himself, they began incrementally to take a firmer hold on Crowley’s hair. As they curled at last against his scalp, Aziraphale pulled his head back, not hard, so that he and Crowley looked one another in the eye.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, uncertainly. “Do you…”

Crowley pushed himself up onto his knees, leaning forward so that he was draped over Aziraphale’s lap, reaching out for him. And Aziraphale kissed him like that, leaned down and forward and let Crowley push his lips against his own, his fingers still twisted in Crowley’s hair. Crowley touched him, touched the clothes, and felt the unreal fineness not only of the wool of the kilt but also the thick cloth of the tunic, the way it seemed to slip away under his fingers.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale was murmuring again, wine on his breath, “Come up here, come— ”

Crowley was quite enjoying kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet, and the prospect of kissing him like this until his legs fell even further open, perhaps getting his head under the kilt, but if Aziraphale wanted something else, then… Crowley leaned in and scraped his teeth over Aziraphale’s bottom lip, until he heard a soft gasp. “Make me,” he said.

Aziraphale’s breath fluttered against his mouth. But then he lifted Crowley’s sunglasses away from where they were pushed up onto his forehead, and put them on the floor beside the sofa. His hand in the back of Crowley’s hair tightened further, and with smooth, easy strength, he pulled Crowley upwards. It was a tug designed to direct, rather than a yank designed to hurt, although it did, very slightly, and Crowley shivered, and came up on to the sofa.

Once he had him there, Aziraphale kissed him a little more, slow, deep, kisses that were leaking some kind of heavenly energy into his mouth, Crowley assumed, because he felt weak with them, overpowered. He had the presence of mind to wriggle his way into as supine a position as possible, lengthways along the sofa, head propped up against one end, so that Aziraphale was leaning down to kiss him, to press his strong tongue against the flickering of Crowley’s. Eventually Aziraphale made the angle easier by kneeling up and straddling him, the kilt draped over both their waists as Aziraphale kept up his soft, unceasing assault.

Aziraphale paused for a moment, looking at Crowley beneath him. His lips were very red, and his eyes were almost too bright to look at. “ _Now_ I’d like to get undressed,” he said.

“No,” said Crowley, mouth twitching, one hand stroking along the length of Aziraphale’s thigh, over the kilt. “No way.”

“This is so stiff, Crowley, I can’t _move_ in it,” Aziraphale said, shifting his shoulders awkwardly.

“All right,” Crowley agreed, and brought his hands up to the front of the tunic, where he touched the lowermost button. The shining metal was warm against his fingertips, and then he slipped it out through its hole. “This can come off.”

Aziraphale’s hands went immediately to the catch of the collar at his throat, unfastening it, and he rolled his neck in relief. Crowley continued to unbutton the tunic from the bottom upwards, and after a moment Aziraphale started from the top down, until it was open, and they could push it off his shoulders and drop it onto the floor.

Under the tunic Aziraphale was wearing a shirt so white it was almost blinding. Crowley touched that, too, feeling the burning virtue woven into the threads of it under his fingers and his palms. He had an age-old instinct— well, he had several age-old instincts, including to look away from it, and indeed to wear it— but the one winning out at the moment was to sully it, if not destroy it completely. Sitting up, so that his spine curved in a way that shouldn’t strictly have been possible, Crowley bent his head to press his mouth against the shirt. He laid the flat of his tongue against Aziraphale’s chest, dragging it in a wet perambulation roughly in the direction of Aziraphale’s left nipple.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, flustered, “What are you doing, you’ll…” Crowley scraped his teeth again, and Aziraphale gasped again, and then, suddenly, his hand was at the back of Crowley’s head again. He pulled Crowley away, and Crowley went, swallowing, his tongue grainy with cotton and holiness. Gently but quite firmly, Aziraphale pushed him back down onto the sofa.

Then Aziraphale lowered his hips, so that where he straddled Crowley’s waist, his backside ground lightly against Crowley’s cock, which was getting stiff and interested inside his jeans. Crowley rolled his hips as best he could under Aziraphale’s weight, which wasn’t much but was more than a human could have managed, and then Aziraphale came down against him again, so that they brushed together on just the right side of teasing lightness.

Crowley smiled up at Aziraphale, delighted. He stretched his arms out behind his head, his body long and sinuous beneath Aziraphale, bearing down on him from on high. “What do you want to do with me?” he asked. “Keep me here and get off on my cock, if you like. Or you could fuck me, take me apart from the inside. Or come up here, let me get my face under that kilt, got a mouth that needs occupying— ”

“This,” said Aziraphale, with another gentle, deliberate rub against him, “is perfect.” He smiled.

“Mm,” said Crowley, not convinced, “well, it’s— getting there— ”

He made to sit up, but Aziraphale, easy as anything, pushed him back down. This time the movement was quick and smooth, the pressure of his hand against Crowley’s chest somehow light as air and iron-strong all at once. Then Aziraphale settled himself over the growing ridge of Crowley’s cock more firmly, and kept the pressure there, rocking infinitesimally back and forth.

Crowley whined and wriggled and tried to roll his hips upwards again, which just rolled Aziraphale’s body upwards in a small arc with him. There was no friction, no delicious give between them, and it shouldn’t have been enough to be pleasurable. But coupled with the sight of Aziraphale shining above him, and the knowledge that Crowley was exactly where he wanted him, the little movement pulled more than its weight. Crowley’s cock ached and throbbed, hard in the confines of his jeans, and he hissed quietly.

“Dear boy,” said Aziraphale, “would _you_ like to get undressed?”

“Yessss,” murmured Crowley, his hands going to his belt, beginning to unbuckle it. But then Aziraphale made a quick, fluttering motion with his hand and Crowley was naked, still pinned beneath him, his skin prickling as the air hit it.

Aziraphale hummed in pleasure, his fingers skating over the hair on Crowley’s chest, thumbs brushing maddeningly against his nipples, and Crowley tried to shift his hips yet again. His cock was now pressed up against the warm material of Aziraphale’s underwear, settled in the cleft of his arse, and hell, the need to rut against him, smear the wet tip of his cock there, made Crowley whine again.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked. “What would you like?”

“Anything,” Crowley gritted out. “Said so. Don’t mind, only let me _move_.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. He knelt up just a little, raising his body no more than a couple of inches, and Crowley lost no time in writhing beneath him, snapping his hips abortively and rubbing his cock against his backside. It brought a rough, fleeting pleasure for a few seconds, before Aziraphale settled back down again, warm and heavy, keeping him in place. Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale said, “Like that?”

“Bastard,” said Crowley, breathlessly, and affectionately.

Aziraphale responded with a small, not displeased-sounding huff of breath. Reaching up, he unfastened the top button of his shirt, one-handed, and rolled the muscles of his neck and shoulders. By Lucifer, he was beautiful. Always had been, obviously, sort of an angelic default thing— but right now, with that apple flush in his cheeks and some sort of ancient steel in his eyes, he was breathtaking.

Crowley forgot his own frustration for a moment, and just looked up at him, amazed all over again that he could; and then, a second later, he remembered that while he couldn’t currently move much of the downstairs disco, he did still have hands. Reaching forward, he trailed them up the outside of Aziraphale’s thighs, slipping over his stockings and under the kilt. And then, at the top of the stockings— dark lords, were those garters?— his fingers brushed slivers of Aziraphale’s smooth skin. The satisfaction of touching Aziraphale was as keen as it ever was, and like this, when he ought to be untouchable, it was even better.

Aziraphale didn’t stop him, and indeed, somewhere underneath or in between the power that the clothes had lent him, looked as if he rather liked it. So Crowley dragged one hand further up to press against the front of Aziraphale’s underwear, feeling the outline of Aziraphale’s growing erection. He circled the heel of his hand there until Aziraphale, swallowing, pressed forward against him.

“You know what,” Crowley said, “I reckon you can take this bit off too, if you like.”

He’d barely even finished the thought before Aziraphale had done the miracle to remove his underwear, and his cock, filling and eager, was in Crowley’s hand. Crowley enjoyed this, for a while: the movement of his hand unmistakeable under the kilt, distending the material as he began to stroke Aziraphale, sparking millennia-old idle thoughts of getting an idle hand under a robe or a toga if Aziraphale would let him.

“Love doing this,” he murmured, as Aziraphale’s gaze began to go a little misty, and his mouth dropped just a red sliver open. “Love when you let me at you. Love when I can see you _wanting_ me to get you off— ”

Blinking, Aziraphale leaned forward, all the way forward, so that he pressed his lips to Crowley’s and kissed the words from his mouth. It started sweet and soft, and then, quite abruptly, was not. Aziraphale licked at his tongue, caught Crowley’s bottom lip between his teeth, panted hot against his chin, and Crowley opened his mouth and welcomed him. Aziraphale’s cock, still in Crowley’s hand, was hovering somewhere above Crowley’s stomach, and if Crowley pushed his body upwards— which he could, that now that Aziraphale had moved forwards— and pulled Aziraphale down, _there_ , he was rubbing the length of Aziraphale’s cock against his skin, caught between his hand and his navel.

But Aziraphale, after one or two sliding thrusts, broke away from him. He was breathing hard, but his eyes were very clear as he knelt up.

“No?” Crowley said, only a little disappointed.

“I thought you said,” said Aziraphale, “that you wanted me to— well. Destroy you.”

“I didn’t exactly say that,” said Crowley, although his stomach had just done a very interesting sort of backflip.

“Sit up,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley, before he had quite thought about it, did so. He pushed himself up to sit back against the arm of the sofa, eyebrows raised. Then— not roughly, but so deliberately that it had twice the effect— Aziraphale reached forward to spread Crowley’s legs, bending one of them at the knee, making a space for himself.

Crowley shivered, his own cock twitching, as he let Aziraphale arrange him in whatever way he wanted. Then Aziraphale shuffled forward again and covered Crowley’s prickling skin with the warmth of his clothed body, settling in the gap he’d made. He pressed a brief, dry kiss to Crowley’s upturned forehead, and then Aziraphale had a hand between his legs, between both of their legs, gripping his own cock and rubbing it into the crease of Crowley’s thigh. Crowley made a high, hard, noise, and then Aziraphale pushed his cock up against Crowley’s own, wrapping his hand around both of them and moving them together.

Crowley was glad, obviously, _obviously_ , that he and Aziraphale hadn’t run into one another while heaven was being torn apart. But here, the idea of it so safely ancient, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Aziraphale might have been before the Earth, before living shoulder-to-shoulder with humanity had shaped him into himself. What _defending the glory of the Almighty_ might have looked like. The Aziraphale above him now was his, theirs, the world’s; but he was still heaven’s, too, a little. Crowley thought sometimes of the way Aziraphale had snatched up his sword at the airbase, a final resort, but a resort nonetheless. The way it had fit his hand, and licked immediately into flame.

Aziraphale’s thumb skated briefly over the head of Crowley’s cock, his hand still sliding over them both, and Crowley gasped. Aziraphale’s eyes were bright with arousal, but with something else, too, something deep and hot and primordial that Crowley, all of a sudden, couldn’t bear to look at any longer. Biting his lip, he turned his head away, and let himself be reduced to the sound of Aziraphale’s breath and the warmth of his fingers, almost human.

But not for long. The fingers of Aziraphale’s other hand touched the nape of Crowley’s neck, careful and precise, and then he took hold of a handful of the hair at the back of Crowley’s head, and pulled. Crowley gritted his teeth against the almost imperceptible flicker of pain, and the overwhelming dig of pleasure, as Aziraphale made him turn his head to face him again, and looked him in the eye.

Aziraphale was almost quivering with hot, banked-up power, a crackle like static that passed from his skin through his clothes and into Crowley. As Crowley shuddered with it, Aziraphale tugged Crowley’s head backwards, baring his throat. Crowley made a choked, desperate noise, and then, as Aziraphale bent his head to kiss him just below his Adam’s apple, he made another one.

“Angel,” Crowley said, redundantly, and came.

He let Aziraphale stroke him through it, until the press of Aziraphale’s hard cock against his softening one became too much, and he mumbled for him to stop. Aziraphale let him go, his eyes suddenly light in an entirely different way, soft and keen and attentive. His fingers loosened in Crowley’s hair, and he rubbed them over the back of his skull, briefly, before he removed his hand altogether.

Crowley groaned, pleased. He stretched his shoulders and then raised his head, mouth open and looking unashamedly for a kiss. Aziraphale bent at once to give it to him, and as he did, Crowley slid a hand back under his kilt. His thumb brushed through the wetness where he’d come between Aziraphale’s legs, slick on his stockings and his skin, and his knuckles bumped the underside of Aziraphale’s cock.

Crowley brought his other hand to the back of Aziraphale’s head as they kissed for a moment longer, teasing through the softness of his hair; and then with a lithe, quick movement, he pushed Aziraphale backwards so that he was cradled in Crowley’s arm. Crowley had enough of the element of surprise that Aziraphale had been laid back against the other end of the sofa before he’d had a chance to protest.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, sounding surprised. “I was under the impression that I was to— triumph over you, or some such thing.”

“I actually said,” Crowley pointed out, “that you could give it a good try,” and then he bent forward, and lifted the hem of Aziraphale’s kilt.

It was warm and dark under here. Crowley’s tongue flickered out instinctively, picking up that sharp undertone of heaven, still, but mainly the welcoming scent of Aziraphale’s arousal, mingled with the evidence of his own. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh, his tongue laving for a moment against the stocking, and then did the same again, further up, until he found some of his own seed and cleaned it off. Again, some more, at the very top of his thigh, and then some on Aziraphale’s cock too. Aziraphale moaned and shifted, but once Crowley had licked him fastidiously once over and pressed a cursory kiss to the tip, he stopped.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pushing his hips upwards just slightly, sounding somewhere between frustrated and hopeful. But if Crowley wanted Aziraphale to lie back in contentment and stroke his hair and tell him how absolutely wonderful he was— which often enough, he did— then he’d suck his cock. But if he wanted to really take Aziraphale apart, then he wouldn’t.

When Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s thighs further apart, and pulled one leg over his shoulder, Aziraphale drew in a quick, hard breath. “ _Crowley_ ,” he said, again, sounding either more desperate or more scandalised or both, and then when Crowley put his tongue in the cleft of him, he made an almost outraged noise, ripped from the back of his throat.

In amongst the haphazard tangle of fantasies that Crowley had entertained over the millennia, a fairly embarrassing number of them involved Aziraphale ascendent, hallowed, glorious— and Crowley, he supposed, basking in it, floating just a little way upwards to meet him. But then, equal and opposite, was the twitching, restless desire to drag Aziraphale down. Not _all_ the way down, obviously, no further than the floor, but to Earth, at least. To strip him of any vestige of purity and deference, to take what heaven had wrought and make it no longer holy. If such a thing were actually possible, it certainly wouldn’t have any relation to whether or not Crowley had put his tongue in his arse, but some of the things Aziraphale tended to say when he did were about as close as Crowley imagined he might get.

Before long Aziraphale’s hand was in his hair again, tugging not with any particular instruction but with sheer useless desperation. “ _God_ ,” he said, which happened extremely rarely unless he was actually talking about Her, and then, “Crowley,” a couple more times for good measure, and then, low, under his breath, “Oh, _fuck_ , Crowley, please— ”

Crowley reached up and above his head, and felt Aziraphale’s stiff cock jump the moment he brushed his fingers against it. With a last profane kiss, he raised himself up to his elbows. Aziraphale was open-mouthed, his eyes shut tight, the kilt rucked up now to his waist and his legs wrapped around Crowley’s body.

“Aziraphale,” he said, and Aziraphale opened his eyes, light and lovely. There he was, entirely Earth-bound, entirely Crowley’s, for the moment, and Crowley smiled in satisfaction. Then he bent his head over his cock so that Aziraphale could come in his mouth.

Once he was done, Crowley draped himself over Aziraphale for a brief, lazy kiss, until Aziraphale pushed him half-heartedly away, and tried to sit up.

“I’m getting changed,” he announced.

Crowley took one last look at the mess of Aziraphale’s uniform, at the fabric of heaven’s might tugged and creased and dampened, and said, “Fair enough.”

With a slightly tired flick of his wrist, Aziraphale sent the clothes away— presumably, Crowley imagined, to some kind of metaphysical dry cleaning service in advance of the metaphysical wardrobe. Rather than his usual suit, Aziraphale was now in a pair of very comfortable-looking striped pyjamas, which Crowley had also never seen before. Deciding he’d pick up his own clothes from the ether later, Crowley took an unreasonably soft tartan blanket from the back of the sofa and pulled it half-over himself.

“But you’re a demon,” said Aziraphale, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watched him. “You don’t get cold.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, reached for Aziraphale’s wine on the floor, and passed it to him. With an only slightly impossible extension of some of his bones, he also managed to reach his own empty glass and the end of the bottle, with which he refilled it.

“So, the great and terrible battle between the forces of heaven and hell, which is and always has been foretold,” Crowley said, holding out his glass for Aziraphale to clink against. “What do you think the chances are that it was that, just then?”

Aziraphale gave a small murmur of laughter, as Crowley had known he would, and said, “At this point, who knows.”

Crowley tucked one bare foot under Aziraphale’s warm thigh, and said, “Also, just to clarify, got a bit sidetracked, but I really would like to see you play cricket again.”

“Oh, yes, I’d like that too,” Aziraphale said, with a surprised cheerfulness that implied that he might be as interested, if not more, in the actual cricketing than anything else. But then he said, “Shame you don’t keep your clothes, you know.”

Crowley shrugged. “Never thought to. When it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on.”

“Shedding your skin,” Aziraphale said, looking fond. “Well, I suppose some of it will come round again, anyway. Fashion’s cyclical, after all,” he added, in the tone of someone who had discovered a very interesting piece of information and was looking forward to presenting it at every possible opportunity. Then, consideringly, “Everything’s cyclical, I suppose.”

“Except for us, yeah,” Crowley agreed. He sipped his wine and scratched a hand through his hair. “The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself, et cetera.”

“That’s very apt. Is it a quotation?”

“Oh,” said Crowley, “Yeah. Björn of… Stockholm.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, interested. “Swedish Renaissance?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’ll have to look into his work,” Aziraphale mused. And then, not looking at Crowley, and in much the same tone, he said, “There will be another war, won’t there?”

Crowley cleared his throat, and shifted his foot, just slightly. “I expect so,” he said. “Could be in another six thousand years, of course.”

“It could be,” Aziraphale agreed. “Or it could be a lot sooner than that.”

Crowley sighed. “Well. Don’t dwell on it now. Not like we can stop it from happening, if it’s going to.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked. “We already did, once.”

“To be fair, that wasn’t really us.”

“Heaven and hell against the world?” Aziraphale was saying, softly, gazing in the direction of the skylight. “Why?”

Crowley couldn’t help a smile. “I wouldn’t go asking questions like that, you know, if you want to stay out of trouble.”

“I wouldn’t have fought this time, you know,” Aziraphale said. “I would have— not done what I was told. If things hadn’t turned out how they did.”

“I know,” said Crowley.

“And I don’t want to fight again.” Aziraphale had turned to face him. “But if we have to…” he blinked, and looked away into his wine glass, and said, “At least I know which side I’m on.”

And Crowley, his human heart skipping, held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it.

**Author's Note:**

> God bless [haeym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haeym/pseuds/haeym) for requesting an exploration of The War Kilt (tm).
> 
> If you liked this story, you can also reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/189829880112/full-dress-equestrianstatue-good-omens-tv)!


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